Light flooded into the open crevice, and illuminated the patterns in the flesh of the dark brown wood, as the book was taken out.
I did not come here during lunch yesterday because I needed to experience life as Cedric, for purposes of better imitation. But being here now, I am having second thoughts.
I avoided lunch today, so that I wouldn't be poisoned by whatever was in my food yesterday, again, but my stomach is in quite the protest against it.
Having it be so loud in class would be… embarrassing, and would certainly not fit the image of Cedric.
Getting poisoned again would also be useful as an excuse to get out of Last Period, but no. When a physical assessment comes, I won't be able to hide it anymore, and if I don't manage to score above a 95 on it either, I will be kicked out of the Academy, like that person… [said]
Arthur had a thought for a moment, but quickly classified it as inefficient of his time, and shut it down.
No research will be done during any of the meal times. It is much too short for any work to be done efficiently, and it will be suspicious if I avoid everybody I know to spend time alone, three times a day. The librarian will also become suspicious, and no matter how ignorant, Ordain will notice the peculiarity around me as well.
I will lose; it is inevitable; It will be finished today.
In the meantime, I should make some friends to lessen the blow.
He went as the time read "13:20".
The Honor Class dining hall was a sanctuary of exclusivity. It was smaller than the general cafeteria, designed for thirty rather than one thousand, with high-backed velvet chairs and the quiet clink of silverware against fine china.
Arthur stood at the entrance, his stomach churning. To anyone else, the spread of roasted fowl and fresh bread was inviting; to him, it was a minefield.
Which plate is safe? Which cup hasn't been tampered with?
The paranoia was a cold hand gripping his intestines, but he forced his posture to remain upright.
He scanned the room.
Kaelen—Rank Five—sat at a round table near the window. He wasn't holding court; he was simply existing as the gravitational center of the room. He sat with four or five other students, laughing at a joke, his demeanor open and easy. He didn't command them; he connected with them. He was the glue. If Cedric was the distant, unreachable idol, Kaelen was the peer everyone actually liked.
The Knight, Arthur thought, analyzing the dynamic. He doesn't seek to rule; he seeks to support. Perfect.
Arthur moved.
The effect was subtle but immediate. As he navigated the tables, the casual chatter died down. It wasn't out of fear, but out of a profound, perplexing respect. The air grew heavy with the weight of unsaid condolences.
"Is there room for one?"
Arthur's voice was soft, barely carrying over the sudden quiet.
Kaelen froze, a drink halfway to his lips. He looked up, his eyes widening in genuine surprise, before a look of relief washed over him. He shifted his chair, not frantically, but welcomingly.
"Cedric," Kaelen said, smiling—though the smile was tight around the edges. "Yeah. Yeah, of course. Have a seat."
Arthur sat, his movements slow and deliberate. He placed his hands on the table, clasping them to hide the slight tremor in his fingers. He didn't reach for a plate.
"Thank you," Arthur said.
He didn't expect the conversation to resume. It didn't.
The students around the table—peers who usually treated each other as equals—shifted in their seats. One boy looked down at his pasta; a girl across from Arthur awkwardly adjusted her napkin. They were terrified of saying the wrong thing, of being too loud or too happy in the presence of the boy who had lost his twin. The silence wasn't malicious; it was suffocatingly polite.
Kaelen looked around, his sharp social instincts picking up on the paralysis immediately. He looked at Arthur—staring at nothing, looking pale and gaunt—and then at the uncomfortable faces of his friends. He realized the group dynamic was choking the conversation before it could start.
He didn't order them away. He just offered them a graceful exit.
"Hey," Kaelen said to the group, his tone light but carrying a clear subtext. "I actually need to go over the notes from Clive's lecture with Cedric. It's probably going to be pretty boring stuff."
The others caught the drift instantly. It was a polite lie, a social lubricant to separate the mourning boy from the crowd without making it weird.
"Oh, right," the girl said, standing up and grabbing her tray. "I actually need to get to the library early anyway. Catch you later, Kaelen? Cedric?"
"See you guys," another muttered, giving Arthur a respectful nod before following her.
They filtered away, relieved to be excused from the heavy atmosphere. The isolation Arthur had sought was achieved, not by force, but by the gentle social grace of his target.
"Sorry," Kaelen said, once they were out of earshot. He leaned back, his expression softening into concern. "It's just… a bit tense. They don't know what to say to you yet."
Arthur stared at the empty space where the others had been.
"Why is everyone avoiding me, Kaelen?" Arthur asked, keeping his voice hollow. "Even when I approach them… the silence follows me."
Kaelen hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's out of respect, Cedric. We talked about it. We wanted to give you space to grieve. We knew how close you and Arthur were. We didn't want to force you to pretend everything was normal when it clearly isn't."
Hypothesis confirmed, Arthur thought. Their distance is born of empathy. How convenient.
"I see," Arthur whispered. He let his shoulders slump, the picture of a man crushed by the weight of the world. "I appreciate that. I really do. You've always been thoughtful, Kaelen."
He turned, locking eyes with the boy. He dialed up the intensity, piercing Kaelen's soul with a look of desperate vulnerability.
"But Kaelen… you're my closest friend here. You're like a brother to me now."
The word 'brother' hit Kaelen hard. His expression shifted from concern to a profound sense of duty. To be compared to the fallen twin—to be elevated to that sacred vacancy—it was a heavy honor.
"Cedric…"
"So I'll tell you the truth," Arthur continued, pressing the advantage. "I am still heavily affected by his passing. You've probably noticed me acting strange since I came back. I locked myself away for weeks."
Arthur brought a hand to his temple, shielding his eyes as if the light hurt him.
"I have been receiving terrible headaches, nightmares… and other sorts of illnesses," he lied—though the bile burning the back of his throat from the stress was real enough. "I appreciate the solitude you and everyone else has given me, but I don't think I'm getting better. And I'm not sure if I ever will."
He looked away, toward the high arched windows that overlooked the clouds.
"I haven't seen my parents. They must be so worried. I think…" Arthur let the sentence hang, heavy and suffocating. "I think I'm going to leave the Academy. Then I won't be so much of a burden to all of you."
Panic seized Kaelen's face. The empathy that defined him went into overdrive.
"No," Kaelen said, leaning forward, his voice low and urgent. "You can't leave–you're the Saint, the Hero! You're… you're the best of us. We need you here; the world needs you here.
Arthur looked at him with tragic resignation. "But I'm broken, Kaelen. I'm not the Cedric you knew. I can't lead you. I can barely stand."
"Then don't lead," Kaelen said firmly. "Just stay. I've got your back. Whatever you need—notes, cover, practice—I'll handle it. You don't have to carry it all by yourself."
Arthur studied the sincerity in the boy's eyes. It was pathetic. It was perfect.
Having a special quality, being the exception. It's what all inferiors want, Arthur thought.
Rank Five, I'll take your offer. I will make many, many mistakes that may thwart my plan, and I'll be counting on you to fix everything, my special Knight.
Arthur allowed a slow, brave smile to break through his mask of sorrow. It was the smile that sealed the deal.
"Thank you, Kaelen," Arthur said softly. "If you really think I can do this… then I'll stay."
Kaelen exhaled, looking as if he'd just prevented a tragedy. "You won't regret it, Cedric."
I know I won't, Arthur thought. But you certainly will.